A Family that will always save you bloat Is none other than Patel’s says my throat.Boasting? No, really. They are like a toteFill whatever from them, they won’t denote.What a family, what a love, what an antidote.Whenever you go to them, they are remoteTo say “No” – a habit which they wroteFor them – gentle, docile and elegant coat.All children – Deep, Arti, Nand, Dhir are raincoat.With their parents and cousins ride a boatOf success; all creative and ready to devote.I never forget this family. This a way I emote.

I am developing a new style of writing poetry where ending words of a line rhyme with one another, at least in last sound. I named it Pari Style. Hope readers will like it. Thanks to those invisible hands and fingers which supported and inspired me to continue my efforts in my new, creative, artistic and innovative “Pari” style. Thanks for your inspiring, kind, soft fingers.

She tied her shawl, the colour of Assam tea, around herself tightly and stepped into the Jeep. She buckles herself in, speeding towards a future as complex as the beading on her petticoat.

India sky simmering, gaining heat. Under the sun, the people are talking. In the streets, whispers of independence float by your ears.

Dadamoshai smells like London winters and ink-stained paper and comfort. Manik smells like tea leaves and fresh air and everything unfamiliar. Both smell like change. So do you.

Assam is a province frozen in the now, stuck between what has been and what will be. You remember it as a fresh start, dusty roads and reading on the veranda when you were small.

Millions of people, all waiting. In this country, you are Muslim or Hindu, and either can get you killed. Trains wind through cracks in the countryside,and inside of the compartments, the air tastes like fear, like blade-of-knife.

India sky like revolution. The clouds jostling for room in the air. Below, people ready themselves. Manik’s ribs ache, a bandage wrapped around his head. The gun sits in his arms, loaded. This is not the Assam you remember.

India sky like gunpowder. The riots surge and fall back again, and the tide washes away red. The future is not as bright as they had told you it would be.

India sky like monsoon season, and then, it clears. The storm breaks, and after,the flag flies India green--Green, like the nation born again.

A free verse poem that I wrote inspired by the novel Teatime for the Firefly by Shona Patel. Written after the style of "Saffron" by Ramna Safeer (inkywings.tumblr.com).

You do not tiptoe around the subject of independence.Sitting on the veranda, you all know that it will meaninsurgence. Later, you look out at the carefully

groomed gardens of Aynakhal. Manik tells youit is safe here. The bungalow is a good place to hide from the rest of the world.

You send letters to those back home, writing of the lily-white women who call you savageand the beautiful view from your garden.

Dadamoshai replies with a list: Calcutta, Bihar, Noakhali. That evening, when the last whistle blowsyou hand the letter to Manik wordlessly.

It is the first time that you see your husband look so grim. They talk about it at the club, the next dayand Manik polishes his guns when you get home.

Assam is added to the list soon enough, and even home isn’t safe, then. The whole world seems to blow up in front of your eyes.

The lily-white ladies are gone when Aynakhal combusts,but Manik is not. On Dadamoshai’s veranda, your daughter is crying. You board the train.

A sonnet that I wrote inspired by the novel Teatime for the Firefly by Shona Patel. Written after the style of "American Sonnet" by Billy Collins. The title comes from the year that India gained independence.